Lisa Owens - Not Working

For a change of scene, I head into our bedroom. While Luke folds and puts away his clothes each evening, with the conscientiousness and foresight that propelled him through medical school, mine accrue in a dune at the foot of the bed.

“Do you think you’re going to deal with that soon?” Luke asked last night, watching a sock spontaneously scud down one side of it.

“Sure,” I said, with the best of intentions.

Now I pick up a T-shirt at random and sniff the fabric, then, deciding it’ll survive another wear, drape it carefully on the bed. Next, a top I have owned for years but never worn. Every so often, on it goes, in the hope I’ve developed the brio to pull it off; but each time, after a grimacing, tugging spell at the mirror, I end up actually pulling it off and dropping the thing back into the pile. I hold it up by the shoulders, considering whether to hang it up or fold it away in a drawer, or get rid of it, finally, altogether; and unable to decide, sink down in despair at where all these things will go and how they will ever get there.

I say, “Would I be Clarence, then?”

Everyone’s moving lasagna around their plates, forking up mince a granule at a time and giving the pasta a wide berth.

“No. It’s not the masculine version of your name; it’s the male equivalent, the way it feels. For example,” Rachel explains, pointing, “if Lauren had been a boy, her parents wouldn’t have called her Laurence, but they might have called her something like Joshua.”

“Him, surely,” I say through a mouthful of salad I’ve picked from the bowl.

“And Francesca would be Raphael.”

“Okay, I get it. So I would be something like James?”

Lauren considers this, shakes her head. “James is regal. Kings are called James.”

“John?” I try, and everyone choruses, “No.”

“John’s timeless. Claire’s kind of — no offense — eighties.”

“Yeah! Or…a flight attendant name,” says Rachel. Everyone murmurs agreement in a quick, muted way that makes me certain they’ve discussed this before, behind my back, probably in the pub near Fran’s flat, when I had other plans, or wasn’t invited, shouting over each other in their eagerness to list my many flaws. Crap hair! Bites her nails! Awful posture! Eighties name! Yeah, no, wait, flight-attendant name! Yeah! Yeah! Shit clothes! No job! Lacks ambition! Just…really annoying!

Fran weighs in. “I think yours would be more like…Rod. Or Ken.”

“Yes!” says Rachel. “Exactly!”

“Absolutely not. You don’t get to be Raphael and lump me with Rodney or Kenneth . No way .”

“It’s just a bit of fun, Claire,” says Rachel.

“I know that! I am having fun! Who wants seconds?”

Words like “stuffed” and “delicious” are muttered as they push away their plates.

—

“How was the girls’ dinner?” asks Luke, sitting down at the lasagna dish.

“A disaster: they hardly ate anything. I’ve already seasoned that,” I say quickly as he picks up the peppermill. He sets it down unwillingly, digs in.

“Well, they’re idiots. This is delicious.”

“You don’t have to tell me . Get this: Fran said, ‘Claire, your cooking is always so hearty.’ ” I wait but see no reaction from Luke. “Hearty!”

“What’s the problem? It’s a compliment. Satisfying. Comforting. Hearty’s my kind of food.”

“No: it’s code for heavy and stodgy. The implication being that I’m fat.”

He rolls his eyes and shovels down a forkful. “I really don’t think it means that.” His fingers creep back round the peppermill and he begins to grind faux-gingerly, teeth clenched as though braced for a blow.

“I know these people — she meant I’m a fatty with an awful diet and I’m trying to make everyone else fat too. Your palate must be really jaded: I got the seasoning spot on.”

“Hey, I’ve just had an idea!” says Luke urgently, still grinding. “Instead of taking everything everyone says to you, or does near you, as a personal attack, why don’t you just…not?” He wipes the orange glow from his lips with two quick licks.

“I’ve just had a better idea! Why don’t you hop on over the fence, try spending a few minutes on my side for once?”

“I so wish I could, but”—he shakes his head—“no can do. There’s this crazy lady over there shouting totally wacko things whenever I try to get near.” He bugs out his eyes. “She’s extremely deluded and insane. It’s quite tragic because she’s actually all- right-looking, and I’ve heard her cooking’s real hearty—”

He yelps, doubles over, limbs a-jerking as I set myself on him, tickling hard.

Trying to conceal the monster within is an arduous full-time job in itself.

I phone Grandma to say thank you for the HEADLINES OF DOOM.

“I wondered if you’d got it, when I didn’t hear from you,” she says. “I asked your mother the other day — she said she couldn’t remember the last time you phoned her.”

My mouth falls open. “She actually said that?”

“Claire, I can’t talk long. I’ve got the little girl from next door coming in to do my hair.”

“You mean Sharon?”

“Of course.” Sharon is in her mid-thirties, a mother of three.

“Okay,” I say. “Did she…Did my mum say anything else? About me?”

“To be honest, Claire, I do think you might lift the phone to her more often. She has rather a lot on her plate at the moment. This bowel business: tell me, what’s your take? Your friend, the doctor — what does he think? Should we be worried?”

Panic stirs, a tiny lick.

“What?” I say.

“Well, I’ve heard it’s one of the better ones…but she keeps telling me there’s no point going there until we know it’s that for sure and it’s just a question mark at the moment.”

“A—”

“But it’s a worry all the same. I never get the full picture: I know she thinks she’s protecting me, but I’m no fool. Did I tell you about poor Wynn? They found it in hers, secondary, and she’s only a couple of months left.”

“Wait, but whose bowel—”

“Wynn, my Canadian friend. You’ve met her. Mind you, she’s pushing ninety, so—”

“No, I mean, before that, when you first—”

In the background comes the prim trill of her doorbell. “Oh! Listen, I’d better go — that’ll be Sharon.”

“Grandma!” I say.

“Don’t worry, Claire. I’m sure your mother’s right and it’s nothing. Bye now!”

I ring “MUM,” then “HOME,” and getting nowhere, try “DAD,” but no one’s picking up. “This is why people should have more than one child!” I shout as the rings go on and on.

“How bad is bowel cancer?” I say, when Luke finally answers two hours later.

“Depends,” says Luke. “Why? Who has it?”

“I don’t know! My mum, maybe, but she won’t answer my calls!” I tell him, or try to, what Grandma said, but it was so elliptical it doesn’t make much sense; plus in my frantic state, I’ve developed hiccups.

“I couldn’t even ask who she meant! Because I didn’t want Grandma to think I didn’t know! I’m! A terrible! Daughter!”

“Shh, it’s okay. Calm down.”

“It might not be okay.” I try to steady my breath. “How bad is it? Is it one of the bad ones?” I’ve spent the last two hours Googling frantically, and have so far been able to counter every rational, medically sound reassurance with three grisly firsthand horror stories.